◈ @silentknives said: ❛ [ TILT ] sender uses two fingers to lift receiver’s chin to look them in the eye ( for Mary!! i could not resist and neither can Emily ;) ) ❜ // domestic intimacy prompts
It had come by such shallow degrees. Like the dawn sun slinking over the sea, bringing with it a subtle shift in the star-flung palette, a move from pitch to ink to opal, from peach to coral. Dazzling, irresistible.
By the light of sun and stars and flame, they had charted courses. They had orientated themselves beneath the faraway celestial bodies, and had moved with the tides. A dog-eared map spread on tavern tabletops, on the creaking floor of the crow’s nest, on the crinkled sea of a borrowed bed, was a thread that bound them.
Together, they drank deep from the well of opportunity, their blood thick with rum and song, carving themselves slice after slice of the world. When they too were cut, they rinsed one another’s wounds, knitting closer in the aftermath, the same saline tang of sea salt and adventure stiffening in their hair.
Weeks sailing led to delight when their boots kissed the shore. In the shadows of sand-stricken awnings, they split segments of tangerines, licking the sweetness from their sticky fingers, laughing aloud their delight. Mary had wondered what it might be like to taste second-hand citrus on Emily’s lips.
A feather touch, gentle and unexpected. Mary – wearing the face of James – raised their head. Emily stood over them, filling their vision, blotting out the azure brilliance of the Caribbean Sea. All the world and its wonders fell away. Mary forgot about the orange in their grasp, its skin half-shed in one long, meticulous spiral.
Hours ago, on this very beach, they too had unravelled. Neither had been drunk on the rum that laced their lips, but rather on adventure, on another artefact claimed in Emily’s name. How Mary – James, James, James – had boldly settled into the space between Emily’s thighs and kissed her, kissed her, kissed her. If they had possessed a cock, they would have pinned her to the sand, would have made love to her in that manly way, in the manner Emily had surely anticipated.
In that moment, if she could have willed herself into a body outlined with sharp, masculine edges, Mary would have traded away the damp gusset, the egg-white of their excitement. But there was no such option, and a truth that should have come to light far sooner became a confession, whispered into the holy hollow of Emily’s hungry mouth.
How lucky they were, that she had not recoiled, that she did not demand explanation of what Mary could not quite articulate. How lucky that it was enough that they possessed fingers, and a mouth, and a heart.
For once, Mary could not think of what to say. There were no words for their gratitude, their affection, their relief. All they could muster was a smirk, their sun-kissed face drenched in sunlight. A weathered hand rose, wrapped itself around Emily’s own, unfurling fingers like flower petals to plant a kiss into the well of her palm, then another against the silk-soft skin of her wrist.
They would sail on the next tide. For now, there was still time to sit in the sand, to split an orange.
